


Through Many Dangers, Toils, and Snares

by enigmaticblue



Series: Grace 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn't lock his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Many Dangers, Toils, and Snares

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt "kidnapping"

Castiel has no warning. One minute, he’s minding his own business, working on a translation job, and the next his door slams open.

 

“Hello?” he calls uncertainly, thinking that maybe it’s Dean, even though Dean isn’t due back in Sioux Falls for another couple of days.

 

Rough hands grab his arms, and Castiel lashes out, but it’s too late. He can’t see his attackers to defend himself, and they soon have his arms wrenched behind his back, zip ties tight around his wrists, a rag shoved into his mouth.

 

They throw him down to the floor, and Castiel tries to kick out, but they tie his ankles, too.

 

And then he’s trussed, helpless, as they carry him out of his house. Castiel can feel the cool bite of the breeze, and he knows from the lack of warmth that night must have fallen while he worked. He’d lost track of time again, too caught up in translating to notice that the sun had set.

 

His abductors unceremoniously toss Castiel into what he can only assume is the trunk of a vehicle, judging by the rough carpet under his cheek and the thunk above his head. Castiel smells gasoline and rubber and oil, and the air is close and still, indicating a closed-off space.

 

The vehicle begins to move, and as it speeds up, Castiel starts to bounce around. There’s nothing to brace himself against, and he feels every bump and dip as he’s jostled. He twists his wrists, trying to find a little give. The plastic bites into his skin, tearing it.

 

His mouth is dry, the rag soaking up whatever saliva he can work up, and Castiel can’t get it out. One particularly fast turn has causes him to crash against the side of the trunk, hitting his head, and the world grays out.

 

He wakes when they lift him out of the trunk. Castiel hangs limply in their grip, his head still swimming.

 

His abductors drop Castiel roughly on a cold, hard floor and slice his bonds. He feels cold metal close around his right wrist with a snick and hears the rattle of metal on metal.

 

Then, he hears footsteps, the sound of rubber soles squeaking against tile, and the slam of a door.

 

Castiel yanks the gag out of his mouth, coughing and spitting out fibers.

 

So far, there has been nothing said, no indication of what they might want. Castiel has no idea where they are, no idea _who_ they are—and he’s never been so scared in his life. Even when he’d woken up blind in the hospital, at least Sam had been there to provide reassurance.

 

He’s never felt so helpless before.

 

Castiel pulls his knees up to his chest and puts his head down, feeling a wave of despair crash over him. No one will notice he’s missing for days most likely, and by then—

 

He breathes deeply, trying to pull himself together. Castiel can’t hope for a rescue; if he gets out of this, it will be because he manages it on his own.

 

Slowly, carefully, Castiel begins to feel the area around him, cataloging what he can sense by touch. He sits on cold tile. The other handcuff is fastened to what feels like the metal leg of a cot, and he feels the bolts attaching the bed to the floor.

 

Castiel manages to get off the floor to sit on the thin mattress, which is at least marginally warmer. He shivers in the chilly air and curls up on the edge of the mattress, his cuffed hand hanging over the edge.

 

He’s just drifting off to sleep when he hears the door open, and he awkwardly pushes himself into a sitting position. “Who’s there?” he calls, hearing at least one set of footsteps, and possibly two.

 

“You’re going to help me, Mr. Castiel.” The voice is cultured and male, probably belonging to someone middle aged.

 

“You could have just asked,” Castiel replies, trying to summon up some bravado. All he has to do is think about what Dean would do under the circumstances.

 

“I could have,” the man replies. “But you could have said no.”

 

“I could still say no,” Castiel shoots back.

 

Someone strikes Castiel across the face, and the same voice replies, “Not if you want to live.” He knows the speaker is several feet away, so Castiel knows there at least are two people besides himself in the room.

 

Castiel spits blood and feels the cool metal barrel of a gun press against his temple. He swallows his fear, and is pleased when his voice remains steady. “What do you want?”

 

“There. I knew you could be reasonable.” The voice is smugly satisfied. “One of our mutual acquaintances recommended you as someone who might be able to help me.”

 

“Who?” Castiel asks.

 

“Oh, lets just say there’s a hunger with a taste for what I can provide.” His tone is smug. “I have a certain business acquaintance who has stolen my property. I want to know where it is, and where he is.”

 

Castiel wants to shake his head, but the gun to his head discourages movement. “I don’t—the visions don’t work that way. I see people in trouble.”

 

“Oh, this man _is_ in trouble, Mr. Castiel,” the voice replies. “As you will be if you don’t do as I ask.”

 

Castiel has never quite figured out how to control the visions. Sometimes, all that’s required is a question or an inquiry. Sometimes, the visions occur without warning. Sometimes, they come when Castiel touches an object.

 

He doesn’t think this man will appreciate Castiel’s lack of control, however, and Castiel knows he needs to buy some time. “Do you have anything of his?” he asks. “Sometimes that helps.”

 

“Of course.”

 

The gun is pulled away, and Castiel hears a brief, whispered conversation. After a minute, someone presses a piece of cloth into his hand. Castiel recognizes the crisp cotton of a dress shirt. He rubs the fabric between his fingers and wonders if he can get away with a lie.

 

“I assure you, Mr. Castiel. If you give me false information, you will not live to regret it,” the voice says, as though the man has read Castiel’s mind.

 

Castiel closes his eyes, mostly out of reflex, and says a brief, silent prayer for wisdom. He suspects that if he can give the man a name and a location, someone will die. He’s not sure he can trade another person’s life for his own.

 

Dean wouldn’t.

 

The vision slams into him then. He sees a short, stocky man pointing a gun at a man with a duffel bag. The man with a gun opens the bag, and Castiel sees packages of white powder inside. The man with a gun grabs the duffel bag and drives away.

 

Castiel’s vision goes dark again, and then he sees the same man in a dingy motel room, much like the rooms the Winchesters stay in. There’s a pad of paper by the bed that reads “Starshine Motel, Beresford, South Dakota.”

 

And then Castiel is back, sitting on a thin mattress on a metal cot.

 

“If I tell you what you want to know, will you let me go?” Castiel asks roughly.

 

“If the information checks out,” the man promises. “You don’t know who I am, and you haven’t seen my face. Obviously,” he adds, chuckling.

 

The snide tone doesn’t sit well with Castiel, but he can’t exactly protest, and he’s not going to point out that he may see the man’s face in a vision.

 

Dean would have a quick retort, or a plan for escape, but Castiel is tired and frightened and heartsick over the choice before him.

 

He tries to tell himself that these are drug dealers, and that if Castiel doesn’t tell his abductor what he wants to know, he’ll be killed.

 

Castiel has learned his lesson: the ends do not justify the means—but he has also learned that sometimes it’s a choice between the lesser of two evils.

 

“The man you’re looking for is in Beresford, South Dakota, at the Starshine Motel,” Castiel says, feeling sick to his stomach. “I don’t know if he still has your stolen property.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Castiel hears footsteps and then the closing of the door, and then there’s only the sound of his own breathing, and the beating of his heart.

 

~~~~~

 

He falls into a fitful doze sometime later in spite of the cold, his headache, and his roiling stomach, but he sits up as soon as he hears the door open.

 

Once again, nothing is said as they uncuff him; they bind and gag him again and drop him in a trunk.

 

Apparently, providing information hasn’t bought Castiel any courtesy.

 

The car stops, and they drag Castiel out of the trunk and cut him loose. “Tell anyone anything and you’ll get a bullet in the brain,” a man growls in Castiel’s ear. He feels a gun barrel caress the side of his neck.

 

Then Castiel is shoved, and he sprawls on the ground, gravel biting into the palms of his hands. He hears the roar of a car engine, and the squeal of tires, and the sound fades.

 

He takes stock of his surroundings as best he can: fresh air, warm sun, birdsong, gravel under his hands and the prickle of grass against his wrists. The breeze is a little cool, and he shivers, wondering if he’s going to be warm again any time soon.

 

Slowly, carefully, Castiel pushes himself to his feet, turning in a slow circle. He doesn’t want to walk out into the middle of the road, and so he takes a couple of small steps, feeling for the telltale signs that he’s well on the shoulder. The sound of his footsteps softens when he reaches grass, and the ground slopes down a bit.

 

Once Castiel is certain that he’s walking parallel to the road, he picks a direction and begins to trudge along. His head aches, as does his cheek where he’d been struck, and he’s still a little dizzy.

 

He hears the sound of tires and is torn between diving for cover and waving the driver down. He settles for something in between and moves a few more feet away from the road as the vehicle passes by. Judging from the displacement of air, it’s a small car, moving at a fast clip.

 

The driver doesn’t slow down, and Castiel keeps walking.

 

He has no idea how much time has passed—how long he’d been held, how long he’s been walking—when he hears the sounds of a vehicle slowing down next to him.

 

“Hey, man,” a young woman calls. “You okay?”

 

Castiel turns toward the sound, and the kindness in her voice. “No, I don’t think so,” he replies honestly.

 

“Oh, dude, he’s blind.” This voice belongs to a young man, and he speaks softly enough that he probably thinks Castiel can’t hear him. “What happened?” he asks loudly, as though Castiel’s ears are just as damaged as his eyes.

 

“A prank,” Castiel lies. “Just—a prank gone wrong. Can you call someone for me?”

 

“I think we should take you to the hospital,” the young woman says. “You’re hurt. Where are you from?”

 

“Sioux Falls,” Castiel replies. “Are you going that way?”

 

“No, but we can,” the young woman says firmly, and she sounds closer now, right at Castiel’s elbow. “My name is Georgia. What’s yours?”

 

“Castiel,” he says.

 

“Great name,” Georgia replies. “I’m going to help you into the backseat of our car. Is that okay, Castiel?”

 

He nods. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Her hands are gentle and somehow knowing. Castiel suspects that she’s had experience with the visually impaired, because she doesn’t raise her voice, and she moves cautiously, clearly trying not to startle him.

 

He lets her lead, feeling his way into the cramped backseat of a car. “My boyfriend, Manny, is driving,” she informs him. “Manny, this is Castiel. We need to head back to Sioux Falls.”

 

“I thought—”

 

“He needs a hospital, and that’s where he’s from,” Georgia insists.

 

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Castiel protests. “I have a friend. If you call him, he can pick me up.”

 

Georgia’s voice is firm. “No, you need a hospital, and we’re going to get you there. Manny?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Manny mutters. “He _does_ look pretty bad.”

 

“Manny!” Georgia reproves. “He’s blind, not deaf. Sorry, Cas.”

 

Castiel notices that she shortens his name the way the Winchesters do. “It’s okay,” he says faintly.

 

“Sorry we don’t have anything for you to drink or eat,” she apologizes. “If you give me the number of your friend, I can call now, and he or she can meet you there.”

 

“Of course,” he replies and rattles off Bobby’s number. “He travels a lot, though. I don’t know if he’ll be home,” Castiel adds apologetically.

 

“It’s okay,” Georgia replies. “Do you have any other friends in town?”

 

“There are a couple, but I think they’re still on the road,” Castiel replies, realizing that his situation probably sounds rather pathetic.

 

“We’ll try them all,” Georgia replies soothingly. “What’s his name?”

 

“Bobby Singer,” Castiel replies.

 

Castiel gets lucky, because Georgia gets through to Bobby on the first try. He can hear her side of the conversation as she says, “Um, hi, Mr. Singer? This is Georgia Randall, calling about your friend, Castiel.”

 

There’s a pause, and she says, “Well, he said it was a prank, but we found him walking along Highway 42, near Rowena. He’s banged up pretty bad, so we’re taking him to the hospital in Sioux Falls.”

 

When she speaks again, Castiel can hear the relief in her voice. “Good. That’s great. I just didn’t think it was a good idea for him to be alone right now.”

 

“We’ll meet you there,” she says. “Thank you, Mr. Singer.”

 

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief and leans his head back against the seat. “Thank you,” he says, infusing as much sincerity as he can into those two words.

 

“I’m happy to help,” Georgia replies, sounding as though she means it.

 

~~~~~

 

Castiel drifts off—or maybe passes out—on the way to the hospital. He wakes with a start when the car pulls to a stop, and his sudden movement starts his head pounding again.

 

“Cas!”

 

Castiel is certain that he’s imagining Dean’s voice, and then the back door opens, and he feels warm, familiar hands on his face.

 

“Excuse me!” The voice is familiar, but it takes Castiel a moment to remember that it belongs to Georgia, the young woman who had insisted on driving him to the hospital in Sioux Falls.

 

“I’m Dean Winchester.” And it’s Dean’s voice, and his callused fingers are tilting Castiel’s chin. “Cas’ friend. I was with Bobby when you called.”

 

“Castiel?” Georgia asks.

 

“He’s my friend,” Castiel confirms, his relief so potent that it brings tears to his eyes. “It’s okay.”

 

“This isn’t the same friend who left you out there, is it?” Georgia asks suspiciously.

 

“Of course not!” Dean snaps. “I wouldn’t do that to him. God, Cas, what happened to you? I stopped by your place yesterday, and—” He stops. “Come on. Let’s get you checked out.”

 

“I’m okay,” Castiel insists. “Really.”

 

“Yeah, well, pardon me if I don’t take your word for it,” Dean says. “I’d rather hear it from the doctor.” There’s a pause, and Dean says, “Thank you. Really. You guys went above and beyond.”

 

“It’s okay,” Georgia says, her voice warmer. “I have a cousin who’s disabled. I hope someone would do the same thing for her.”

 

Dean helps Castiel out of the backseat, his touch solicitous and gentle. “Again, thank you. If you ever need anything, give Bobby a call. He knows how to get in touch with me, and with Cas.”

 

“Thanks,” Georgia replies. “Take care of yourself, Castiel. And tell those friends of yours to fuck off the next time they want to play a prank like that.”

 

“Definitely,” Castiel replies with feeling.

 

Dean puts an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “I was worried,” he says quietly. “We got to your place, and the door was open, and there was no sign of you. What the fuck happened?”

 

“I’ll tell you later,” Castiel promises. “I just want to get this over with.”

 

The ER visit takes longer than Castiel would have preferred. The resident insists on taking an X-ray, revealing that Castiel’s cheekbone is cracked. There’s nothing the doctors can do about that, other than tell him to ice it. The doctor refuses to give Castiel anything more than Tylenol for the pain, since he’s got a mild concussion.

 

The resident cleans and bandages the abrasions on Castiel’s wrists and palms, and he advises Castiel to file a police report. “I know you think they’re your friends, but you could have been seriously hurt,” the man says, his tone lecturing, his voice a little too loud.

 

Castiel sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Your friend here wasn’t one of the people who did this, is he?” the resident asks.

 

Dean bristles silently, and Castiel reaches out to pat his arm. “No, he’s not one of them. I won’t willingly go with them.”

 

“Good,” the resident replies, apparently satisfied. “Mr. Winchester, I think it would be best if someone stays with him for the next 24 hours. It’s a mild concussion, but someone should wake him up every two hours anyway, just in case.”

 

“Oh, he’s not going home,” Dean says darkly. “Not until I teach those asswipes a lesson.”

 

“Good,” the resident replies. “Because if someone hadn’t picked up your friend, he could have been badly hurt. Make sure he drinks plenty of fluids, too. He’s a little dehydrated.”

 

“No problem,” Dean promises. “I’ve got him.”

 

Castiel doesn’t know whether to be pleased that Dean is looking after him, or pissed off that they’re talking about him as though he’s not there. Castiel sees no point in arguing, though, because he wants nothing more than to go home.

 

“Dean, I want to go home,” Castiel says as Dean pushes him out in the obligatory wheelchair.

 

“We’ll talk about it in a minute,” Dean says in an undertone.

 

Castiel recognizes the Impala when he climbs in. There’s the smell of fast food, and Dean’s aftershave, and Sam’s, all mixed together. Castiel lets out a sigh of relief, feeling safe for the first time since his front door had swung open.

 

“We’re going to pick up some of your stuff, and then we’re heading to Bobby’s,” Dean insists. “I want to keep an eye on you.”

 

“That’s not necessary,” Castiel protests.

 

Dean snorts. “Necessary or not, you disappear, and you get us hovering for a while until we know who it was.”

 

Castiel sighs. “I think it was a drug dealer. There was nothing supernatural about him.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Dean demands.

 

Castiel rubs his eyes. “No, I’m not. Someone stole something—I think drugs—from him, and he wanted to know where the man was. Either I told him, or he killed me.”

 

There’s a long pause, and then Dean says, “You made the right call, Cas. You don’t want to have anything to do with dealers.”

 

Castiel refrains from pointing out that he hadn’t had much of a choice in getting involved with drug dealers. It isn’t like Castiel had advertised his services to the world at large.

 

“I didn’t have another option,” Castiel says quietly.

 

“I know,” Dean says. “You did the best you could. That’s all anybody can do. If it’s a choice between your life and some dealer’s, you win every time.”

 

Castiel is warmed by Dean’s insistence, but more than that, by the fact that Dean had showed up at the hospital. “Thanks.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Dean says, sounding tense. “I couldn’t stop you from getting kidnapped. And I’m getting you better locks and a panic room, by the way.”

 

“I don’t need a panic room,” Castiel objects.

 

“You think,” Dean mutters grimly. “But until you’re recovered, you’re staying at Bobby’s, so we can postpone that discussion.”

 

Castiel refrains from pointing out that there has been no discussion. He doesn’t mind staying at Bobby’s for the next couple of days, though, just until he has a better plan for keeping unwanted visitors out of his house.

 

When they arrive at Castiel’s house, Dean insists on going in to grab a few of Castiel’s things. “I’ll grab your laptop and some clothing,” Dean promises. “Just hang tight.”

 

Castiel doesn’t see that he has another choice, so he locks his door and waits for Dean to return.

 

He hears the key turning in the lock before he hears the driver’s side door open. There’s a soft thunk, and then Dean says, “I grabbed a few days’ worth of clothing. I didn’t know how long you’ll be at Bobby’s. And your laptop is in its bag.”

 

If it had been anyone other then Dean, Castiel probably would have protested, but it _is_ Dean, so he lets it go “Thanks.”

 

“I was happy to do it,” Dean says. “I’ve got you.”

 

“And at Bobby’s?” Castiel asks, thinking that he already knows the answer. He thinks Dean will probably put him in a bed, while Dean sleeps on a hard surface somewhere.

 

“Let’s get you situated and then we’ll see,” Dean replies. “We don’t have any solid leads on a new case yet.”

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Castiel begins.

 

“Don’t argue,” Dean replies. “Sam and I don’t have another job right now, so we’ve got a little time to get this figured out.”

 

Castiel lets out a breath in relief. “Okay. That sounds good.”

 

“I’m going to find a way to keep you safe,” Dean promises.

 

Castiel rubs his aching head. “You can’t always.”

 

There’s a long pause, and then Dean says softly, “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

 

Castiel smiles faintly. “No, I guess not.”

 

He’s not happy about losing his independence even for a few days, but Castiel feels safer with Dean around, and he’s warmed by Dean’s concern, which feels like evidence of their friendship.

 

“Hey,” Dean says softly, wrapping a large, warm hand around the back of Castiel’s neck. “We’ll get this figured out.”

 

Castiel feels the last bit of tension seep out at Dean’s use of “we.”

 

“I know,” Castiel says. “I’ll be fine.”

 

And when Dean leaves his hand where it is, Castiel knows it’s the truth: they’re going to be just fine.


End file.
